Distracting
by Somigliana
Summary: Hermione is annoyed that Blaise is disturbing her studying.


**Distracting**

**By Somigliana**

Disclaimer - Blaise and Hermione belong to JK Rowling.

* * *

She _wasn't_ going to look up.

No, she was going to continue reading this fascinating proof and pretend that Blaise Zabini did not exist.

Inevitably, scant seconds after her self-recrimination, her gaze slid past the same plethora of integral signs that she'd been concentrating on for the past hour, seemingly magnetically drawn to the man sitting across from her.

Buggering fuck. She'd done it _again_.

He was reading his text; the image of diligence with an expression of intense concentration on his face. He was completely bloody oblivious to the ripple of aggravation that itched and grated at her nerves. She wanted to scream, to let a shrill cry of annoyance echo through the quiet library. He made her want to slam her book closed and throw it as hard as she could at his smug, self-satisfied, handsome face.

Everything about Blaise Zabini irritated her. _Immensely._

He just never seemed to go away, the annoying git. He was in every single one of her classes at the newly-founded wizarding faculty at Oxford. And now (curse the bitchy, conniving fates) she'd ended up with him as her partner on the most important Advanced Arithmancy project of the year. It had to be him, oh yes. Why she couldn't have been paired off with Mandy Brocklehurst or somebody less... distracting.

There, she'd admitted it. He was a distraction. That singular fact annoyed her more than Draco Malfoy, than Colin Creevey, than… Sybill fucking Trelawney. He distracted her from her books and studies; a cardinal sin if there ever was one.

She hated that she felt the urge to sneak glances at him, to wonder about him. She rested her cheek on her hand and watched him surreptitiously. He never noticed her watching him anyway. Hardly ever gave her the time of day, really, the superior bastard.

She couldn't place what it was about him that drew her gaze and fed her imagination… it made her want to invent some very creative uses for the Unforgivables.

For one, his robes were always impeccable and perfectly creased, while hers were generally a little wrinkled, no matter how many anti-wrinkle charms she applied. She was positive that they had some ingenious little spell on them that prevented them from riding up his polished dragon hide boots so that she could tell whether he wore trousers or not.

She really shouldn't be curious about whether he went wizarding style or not, but she was. She wondered if the rest of his body was as smooth and bloody sexy as his hands were. Were his tall frame and broad shoulders complemented by a remarkable set of abdominal muscles? Were his legs as long and toned as she imagined them?

Dammit, now he was doing that thing with his hands again. His silver ring reflected the afternoon sunshine in bright spots against the bookshelves as he rotated it on his middle finger with his thumb. She hated that she was curious about where the ring came from and what it meant to Blaise. And she despised the irrational jealousy that spiked when the traitorous little pessimist in her mind pointed out that it may be from a lover (who would know exactly what he looked like under his damned robes).

Watching him study was just intoxicating. He slouched languidly in his chair, and now and then a slight frown of concentration would crease his brow—perhaps when he read a particularly complicated theorem, she liked to think. What man had eyebrows like that anyway? The kind that most women—Hermione included—would kill for? No, she was blessed with a full set of eyebrows that would have made Frida Kahlo envious. It was just so unfair that he was so impossibly perfect.

She stifled a sigh as he prepared to turn a page. She knew what was coming; she'd been watching him the whole week now after all. His tongue darted out against his full lower lip and he licked his index finger before turning the page. She scowled. The way that he turned pages—seemingly aiming for maximum friction of parchment against parchment—was just infuriating.

That wasn't the worst, though. Sometimes, he'd make notes. His quill always made a scritch-scratching sound that seemed to rub her last nerve raw, compelling her to glance up to see what he was doing.

Normally when she studied, she welcomed the peaceful silence of the library. Now, _his_ silence unnerved her. When he did deign to talk to her, it was about their project only. Blaise wasn't one for small talk, ever.

She hated that he always pointed out the flaws in her logic in that calm, neutral, rational tone. His voice reminded her of that 70-cocoa chocolate that she used to sneak from her mother' grocery cupboard… sinful, dark, rich and slightly bitter. He had an indifference that made her want to stomp her feet and throw a temper tantrum.

He always did that nonchalant little lift of his shoulder thing that indicated that he didn't really care one way or the other about some point that he considered irrelevant. She had to just about drag conversation out of him by asking leading questions. He stared so intently at her when she was speaking. And most of all, it annoyed her that he called her Granger, when she really wanted to hear his voice caress the syllables of her first name.

_Enough!_ She pulled her attention back to her book after barely satisfying her murderous urge with a fiery glare.

She missed the amused look in his eyes and the slight quirk of his full lips just after she'd dropped her head.

* * *


End file.
